


Undone

by Brokenjaw (Vrael)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Crowley, Rat! Aziraphale, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 07:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrael/pseuds/Brokenjaw
Summary: Aziraphale Falls.





	Undone

“Do you forsake your association with the demon, Crawly?” Gabriel asks. His stolen eyes twinkle with snide amusement. 

“It’s Crowley, actually. And no, I don’t think I do. Or will.” Aziraphale replies primly.

Heaven is still sterile, still cold, still pristine - and its as unsettling as ever. Buildings shimmer in the distance behind two story windows. The linoleum shines like teeth that have been obsessively whitened until there’s no tooth enamel left. 

“Think about what you’re saying.” Gabriel circles his chair. Aziraphale’s hands are tied to the armrests so he has to strain to follow. “You would instead forsake God, for this, this- Demon. An unworthy creature cast out of the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“He sauntered downward, for the record.”

“Fine. Sauntered then, from the Kingdom of heaven.” Gabriel’s smile is sharp, like a knife.

Aziraphale smiles back, and it’s also not a nice smile. “I think that you and I have different interpretations of unworthy.”

But Gabriel remains unmoved. His whole body is stiff with barely restrained violence. “Hellfire didn’t work. I’m not sure what you did - but undoubtedly it has something to do with your unsavory relationship.” He made a flippant gesture. “So, I said to myself, how did we used to take care of traitors back in ye olden days?” 

Azirapahle swallows. If he could sweat, he would be sweating now. 

“Ahh that’s right. You know what I’m talking about.” Gabriel stands right in front of the chair. 

“I-I didn’t betray anyone. I just did what was right.” 

“And yet you still insist on being friends with the Crowley.”

“He also did what was right.” It’s one thing to insult himself, but another to insult Crowley. And that was a hill that was worth dying on. At least metaphorically. 

“Right?” Gabriel sneers. “I did some investigating - you gave away your flaming sword, to the humans of all things. You lied to God. You deserted your post. You let yourself be seduced by a Demon. You interfered with Her Plan. I don’t think you would know what right is if it walked right up to you and spat in your face.”

“You’re wrong.” Yes, those were all, on paper, very bad things. But the reasons for them were good. He knew it as surely as he knew the color of the sky. Or his tartan bowtie. 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. 

“And you’re a rat, Aziraphale.” He says, showing the edges of his perfect canines. “And maybe it’s time you act like one.”

Without any preamble, Gabriel kicks the chair. It wobbles, and Aziraphale is almost relieved - but then it starts moving backwards. And the Angel is falling through the floor. Falling through the clouds. Falling through the atmosphere. 

And falling.

And falling.

* * *

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouts. “Aziraphale!”

He’s in Hell. The last place, the very last place he had ever wanted to be. But of course his stupid Angel went and got himself kidnapped. 

He searched almost every corner of the earth that he could have possibly been (every single bookstore, fussy restaurant, and tea shop) to no effect. Not even a whiff of a clue. And Heaven, as much as he would have loved to storm the gates, was off limits. Aziraphale was very clear on his thoughts of divine suicide. Which left only one place left to look. Hell itself. But Crowley wasn’t sure which place would have been worse to end up in, at this point.

“Aziraphale! I told you. I said I’d come for you. Wherever you are I’d come for you. But I can’t come for you if I don’t bloody know where you are!” 

Hell itself is an endless molten abyss. There’s a reason why most demons thrive in the tunnels, below ground. The heat is sweltering. It’s all jagged rocks and magma. It’s a boring, uncomfortable slog to the Lake of Fire - filled with chafing, and questionable landscape choices. 

Suddenly, a streak of white shoots itself across the smokey firmament. 

Crowley’s heart catches in his throat. 

“No.” He whispers. “No. Please no.”

Someone is Falling. 

And no one has Fallen for a very, very, long time. 

There’s almost no question as to who it is. 

Crowley breaks into a run. His long, ungainly legs eating up the distance between him and the figure that’s just about to plummet into the Lake. He doesn’t make it - and the Angel hits the lava with an enormous splash. 

And that’s another place Crowley cannot go. His body recoils from the lake - it’s an anathema. It’s like a magnet that pushes him away, as it pushes all demon’s toward its shore. All he can do is watch helplessly from the beach and wait. Tears pool at the bottom of sunglasses. 

He should have guessed Heaven wouldn’t let things be. It wasn’t in their nature to leave loose ends. Guilt is screaming in his bones. He should have been more careful, he shouldn’t have left Aziraphale’s side. Was grabbing coffee that morning so important? It really wasn’t. 

After a while, his clever snake eyes catch something moving its way across the surface of the magma. On closer inspection that something is white, and.. fuzzy? Its floating and crashing with the waves, back and forth, until it’s tossed onto the scree- almost as Crowley’s feet. Hell presented him with a present, like a cat would present a- 

Rat. What’s at his feet is a tiny, fluffy, white rat. The poor creature’s little lips are parting, and its panting, wide eye-ed with exhaustion and pain. It’s satiny ears twitch at almost every sound. Its fat, cute, tummy is rising and falling with every stunned breath. 

Crowley knows, he feels, without a shadow of a doubt that this is his angel, Aziraphale. 

“Angel.” The demon says “Oh. Angel. What did they do to you.” He reaches down to try to touch him, but his angel suddenly panics. 

Aziraphale tries to run - oh how he scrambles. Tiny paws scritch and scratch at the dirt, but it’s obvious Aziraphale doesn’t quite know how to move in his new body. The newly fledged demon can’t make it far - and Crowley knows from an embarrassing amount of experience. When the big Y in the sky threw the then Crawly down into the lake of fire, She didn’t give a fig about how inconvenient it was to move without limbs. Or how many years it took to crawl his way up the bank. Or about the fact that the bank was mostly broken glass and shattered obsidian.

Sometimes at night, before he falls asleep, his heart clenches so uncomfortably at the memory he forgets to breathe. But, seeing in play out again, like this, and forced on the only person he’s ever really, really given two shits about, it’s even worse than not breathing. It’s like having his lungs ripped out from his chest and his still beating heart slammed to the ground at 110 miles per hour. 

But it’s not like he needed the air anyway.

“Angel.” Crowley says as softly as he can. “Do you understand me? Can you?”

Aziraphale says nothing. He doesn’t acknowledge that any words had ever been spoken, he doesn’t seem to know where he’s actually going, and he keeps trying to crawl away anyway.

Crowley can’t help but wince. 

His angel’s white fur is beginning to blacken with the demonic equivalent of blood. Delicate pink paws are clumsily are digging into the searing earth. And his little, tiny tail is dragging a bit helplessly on the ground, like a forgotten piece of string.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley a little desperately, shifting a little closer. “Come on. Please.”

But the rat tries to scrabble up the bank even faster. He even squeaks a little - a soft, and pathetic sound. 

Crowley can’t even how long it took to remember words after his Fall, now that he’s thinking about it. There was no one to talk to. No one bothered. What was there to talk about? The weather? The constant blistering inferno? The dank tunnels where the demons gathered to hide from said blistering inferno? There weren’t even humans to talk about back then. Demons were just a bunch of disfigured creatures without jobs - self absorbed in their celestial depression. Ennui was a universal language that didn’t need to be spoken. It wasn’t worth the effort.

But this - this is different. This is dangerous. It’s one thing to Fall when everyone else Falls with you. It’s another to Fall alone. In the early days of Hell everyone had an equal place at the starting line, so to speak. But Aziraphale, poor, beautiful, soft, Aziraphale had Fallen into den of demons who had much more blood on their name than he. 

Crowley settles of a course of action before he can talk himself out of it.

“I’m sorry about this, mate.” He whispers quickly and scoops up the very surprised rat. Aziraphale is so small, and so soft and-

His teeth are painfully sinking into the skin of his palm. 

“Fuck!” His angel had bit him. Aziraphale actually but him. “That bloody fucking hurt you fluffy pillock.”

The demon has to actually peel the rat from his palm. His angel wasn’t letting go. His teeth were hooked in pretty deep, and it’s all Crowley can do to gently pry his mouth open. But Aziraphale panics- his little body squirming so much it’s difficult not to drop him.

“Would you stop that?” Crowley pleads. “Please. I’m not going to hurt you, Aziraphale. Promise.”

But again, Aziraphale doesn’t listen. Crowley swiftly drops him in his breast pocket, nestled against his heart. The left side of his chest squirms and squirms and squirms. He’s about to tap him gently when-

“Crawly! Long time no see.”

Two shadows suddenly appear at the edge of his peripheral vision.

“Moloch. Belial.” Crowley says, turning and giving them the once over.

“At your service.” Moloch says with no small amount of sarcasm. He is a bull demon - an oddly large and muscular creature for all the vermin that infest Hell. He has hooves that peak out from tattered pant legs - and large, empty eyes. Belial, in contrast, is morbidly rotund and diminutive - he is a tick, bloated with what could only be blood. And they both have a hungry, hungry gleam in their eyes.

“We saw a new recruit.” Belial licks his chitinous lips.” We haven’t had one of those in millennia.”

“We saw the light as they Fell. So bright. So delicious.” Moloch wheedles. “You’re not hoarding it all for yourself, are you?”

Crowley quickly stares down at Aziraphale. He’s attempting to dig a hole in his dear Armani pocket. But the suit jacket isn’t giving. You get what you pay for, Crowley supposes. But at least he’s still safe.

“I haven’t seen ‘em.” Crowley says casually, glancing back upwards with a thin smile. “I’m just here for the weather. They don’t have lakes like this in the surface. Stuff up there is infested with ducks.

Both demons look unconvinced. Instead they are slowly encroaching on his very personal space.

“C’mon Crawly, give us a taste.” Moloch hisses.

“Yes Crawly, it’s been so long since we’ve had fresh blood.”

He can feel Aziraphale’s tiny heart hammering against his own, and something in him shatters itself free. How dare they. How. Dare. They.

Crowley bares his fangs, he can feel scales bloom across patches of skin. His wings snap to attention behind him. He knows what he looks like- a monster, and one of Hell’s greatest. He was one of Satan’s once-favored fallen. One of his chosen. The tempter in the garden, the one trusted with his own misbegotten son. Not even Beezlebub could say the same.

Both demons shrank back perceptibly.

“I will only ssssay this once.” Crowley hisses, and it echoes, and echoes. “He issss mine. Not anyone elssssesss. Anyone who so much as touchessss him will be dessstroyed, obliterated, and wiped off the face of the universsse without a sssecond thought.”

Quick as a blink, he’s in front of Moloch, his fingers are wrapped around his ugly, thick throat and lifting. The demon’s hooves dangle helplessly off the ground. 

“Do you underssstand?” Crowley says, squeezing Moloch’s windpipe like an overripe aubergine. The demon makes a strangled nod, clawing ineffectually at his iron grip.

“Good.” 

Moloch is dropped to the ground in an undignified pile and Crowley straightens his lapels. When he glances at Belial, the other demon clumsily prostrates himself on the ground - not even daring to make eye contact.

“I am leaving now.” Crowley growls. “And I don’t expect to return. You will leave me and Aziraphale alone if you value your continued existence.”

He looks down at the shivering rat in his pocket- letting his scales slip away. Aziraphale seems to have calmed down a little. At least he’s not squirming as much. But he’s not actually sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“But what about Satan? Our Lord!” Moloch sneers, rubbing his neck. “What you’re doing is betrayal of the highest order!”

“The big man can take it up with me, himself, if he can even be bothered.” 

And, upon reflection, Crowley knew he couldn’t be bothered. He knew this for a fact. After the whole not-actually-the apocalypse incident, the Boss was laying low and licking his wounds. Being defeated by his ex-progeny can be an incredibly humbling affair - and Crowley was pretty sure he didn’t want to go two-for-two. Not that the demon could win, of course, but knowing Ol’ Scratch… well, not even the Devil wanted to take those odds right now. Especially if it seemed like Crowley had Adam’s backing.

And it gave him an idea.

“Actually.” Crowley shouts at whatever Hell called the sky. “Consider this my resignation. You don’t even have a proper health plan. No dental. No benefits at all.” 

Moloch’s bovine eyes widen in shock and disbelief. “He could destroy you with less than a thought, you arrogant snake!” 

“He can try.” Crowley makes an obscene gesture with his tongue. “Because he was oh so effective with the Antichrist.”

“And what do you plan to do now?” Belial is still on the ground, recoiled and shaking - but even he can’t hide his incredulity. “You’re still a demon, Crawly! You can’t change that. Eventually you’ll come crawling back. It’s in your nature.”

“It’s Crowley, actually.” He sneers. “And to be honest I’ve always wanted to try opening a flower shop.”

Both Belial and Moloch are equally perplexed. Their ugly twisted faces can’t seem to grasp the concept - and at this point Crowley can't be arsed to care. He sighs, shrugging his shoulders.

“Well, as much as this has been a fun little reunion, I really must be going now-” He turns his back on them, flipping the bird for good measure. “You fucking wankers.”

Crowley departs with a freshly fledged demon in his pocket- and no one dares to stop him. He doesn’t look back. And he certainly doesn’t give two shits if he pissed off Satan- effectively making him the enemy of the two most powerful beings in existence. He has a new charge now. A new purpose. It’s nestled in the darkness of his front pocket. 

He doesn’t quite saunter up from Hell, but it’s close enough.

* * *

Crowley- a very old demon, and Aziraphale, very new demon are sitting in an antique bookshop. 

Sitting is probably a loose term for what the demons are doing, actually. It’s a well known fact that Crowley’s legs are the adversary of any normal sitting position. His limbs are hooked over an armrest of an overstuffed chair while the rest of his body slithers backwards as he sips from a far too full wine glass. 

And Aziraphale isn’t sitting per se. He’s resting on his white haunches as his little pink nose sniffs dubiously at a bottle cap filled with Château Rayas.

The welcome sign is firmly flipped to ‘CLOSED’ and an electric kettle is whistling in the back,(or at least doing a robotic impression of a whistle). It was a gift from Crowley a couple years back. The shiny chrome of it was weathered down by years of use and love. It was both loyal and annoying to a fault.

Perhaps Aziraphale is more in the mood for tea. At least Crowley hopes he is. Because his Angel still hasn’t said a word. Or changed out of his rat form. Or sipped at the wine. Or even nibbled at the little plate of cupcakes in front of him that Crowley “miracled” from a nearby bakery.

The demon manages to pull himself up from his twisted drinking position and dredges to the counter, wine sloshing in hand. He spills a little on the Turkish carpet - but he’ll handle that later. He has more pressing problems to worry about. 

Crowley’s long fingers wrestle with a tea tin.

What he worries about, actually worries about. Is Aziraphale not actually wanting tea. Or anything at all. It’s such a small thing, truth be told, but it’s the real reason Crowley is a nervous, drunken wreck at the moment.

Crowley doesn’t remember how long it took to pull himself together after Falling. But more importantly, he doesn’t remember if there were demons who hadn’t managed it. There’s a reason why he’s never much of a snake anymore, and that's because it’s a backslide. It’s a skin he’s too comfortable in - and he knows, he feels it in the fabric of his bones, that if he stayed that way too long that he would forget his human form. And he rather liked this one. It was the one Aziraphale knows and knows best. 

He worries that his Angel will forget what it’s like to look human. To act human. To like human things like little iced cakes and vintage wines and overly wrought tea blends. Being an Angel is one thing - but being trapped, in one form as a demon is another. He worries that there’s not much left of the Angel he lo-

Loves.

The angel he loves. 

God, he’s drunk if he can so easily admit that to himself. 

He clatters around the cupboard for a second, fishing out a floral teacup and matching saucer. In it he places a packet of Aziraphale’s favorite rose infused tea, milk, and three sugars. It’s sickenly sweet, but it’s just how he likes it. Crowley remembers.

When he returns to the sitting area, Aziraphale is still there - watching him carefully and rubbing at his whiskers. It’s probably a good sign that he didn’t flee for the spaces underneath the bookstacks. It’s at least a relief anyway. Crowley’s not actually sure how he would find him if he decided to make a run for it. 

“Angel.” Crowley says gently. “You should try and eat something. Or drink something. I know we don’t technically need to- but, it helps.”

He places the saucer down carefully in front of him, but the rat makes no move to investigate it. Aziraphale just watches without blinking his depthless black eyes.

“When I Fell,” Crowley tries again. “it was so hard to remember anything good at all. Most of my memories of heaven were ripped away and burned out of me before I even hit the Lake of Fire. I wanted so badly, then, to just be a snake. To ever forget I was anything else. It’s simple being a snake, you know? It’s a bunch of eating and sleeping and then more eating, and then more sleeping. Being a demon is much harder. There’s orders and lies and politics.” He waves his hand dramatically as if orchestrating a maddening band. “And it’s never ending. Oh God, is it never ending. But once in a while something good comes along. Or someone. And they remind you that you are a person.” 

Rain begins to pour outside. Crowley can hear it pounding against the roof. His own heart beats louder, but not by much. 

“When I tempted Eve to eat the Apple, she didn’t need much convincing.” He continues. “It was a one and done scenario. Get in, provide temptation and get out. Easy as pie. But then, just above the Eastern Gate, I saw an Angel - glorious and bright like a newborn star. He looked soft, so soft, that it hurt to look away. His whole being burned with goodness. And in that moment I wanted so badly then, not to be a snake anymore. I wanted to be his equal. So he would talk to me. And so I was.”

Crowley glances at Aziraphale, who’s vacant gaze seem to have never left his own.

“I grew wings so I could match him, I grew hands so I could touch him. A voice so he could hear me. And lips so I could- I could-“

The Demon swallows.

“Sometimes you need a shred of goodness as a tether. I guess that’s all that I’m saying. So please Angel, try for me. I’ll get you anything you want- just tell me. You’re safe here, and you’ll always be.”

Aziraphale’s ears prick upwards. His whiskers twitch as they sniff the air. His gaze finally seems to notice the tea in front of him. Tiny pink paws take a hesitant step forward.

“Go on Angel.” Crowley almost whispers. “It’s all for you. Go on-“

And-

Aziraphale is gone a flash of white- fleeing under the nearest couch and skittering as fast as his little legs could take him. 

In his haste he has knocked the cup over. The dainty floral china is shattered on the floor - he hot tea is spilled everywhere and is absolutely ruining the carpet.The once beautiful saucer is completely upended in pieces. As well as the frosted cupcake and the little bottle cap of wine. 

The room is silent, all but for the dripping table.

And Crowley’s heart breaks.

* * *

The back room is a cozy and safe place as any. It’s just as the same as the last time he’d been around. Books are packed into shelves like clotted arteries. The desk is still snowed-in under piles of old paperwork and ancient pages. And his favorite lamp is still there, nestled right next to a weathered edition of Dune.

Crowley is tired. So tired. 

The trip to Hell and back exhausted him physically.  
The fact that he told the two most powerful deities in the universes to fuck off exhausted him mentally.  
And Aziraphale’s current state exhausted him emotionally. All In all its been a pretty shit day. 

He had long given up trying to find Aziraphale in the labyrinth that was his shop. Instead, he left out some strawberries and whipped cream - hoping that he might be eventually daring enough to take a nibble. It was all he could do to pour a fresh cup of tea without a pathetic hiccuping sob. Some demon he is. 

Crowley flicked on the desk lamp, letting it warm up the soft papers on the desk. He slips off his jacket and tosses it on a forlorn wooden chair. His glasses come to rest on a stack of books. Shoes are kicked venomously into a forgotten corner.

Slipping out of his skin comes easy, too easy. Easier than taking off his clothes. Gone is the artifice of his human form - and in its place is the old body he knows all too well. He’s a big fuck-off snake - all shimmering scales and piss-poor attitude. 

He slithers up the desk leg to his makeshift nest and then coils there. The heat of the lamp is lulling in its way. It’s not quite the sun, but he’ll take it. His muscles loosen in a lazy languor. His imagination drifts like a small dingy in a vast ocean of sorrow.

He’ll try to find Aziraphale tomorrow, he thinks. And maybe attempt something a little different. Maybe something less fussy.

His forked tongue flicks at the prospect. 

Until now, he’d been avoiding using cheese; he knew it could be taken as mildly offensive. It would be like tossing a dead rabbit in Crowley’s direction. But given his angel’s tacit refusal of everything else he usually liked, it seemed like a decent enough idea. He could even try all sorts of things. Class it up a little. Brie, cheddar, manchego-

“Crow-ley.” A soft voice says, so suddenly, and so quiet, that he almost thinks it’s a figment of his imagination. 

Crowley peers up from his coils- his sleepy thoughts on cheese quickly dissolved. The rest of the room is almost pitch black. He can’t really see anything, but he can smell Aziraphale. The air tastes so sweet makes his fangs ache. 

He shifts his posture to sample more. He drinks him in like a finely aged wine.

The predator in him sings at the presence of a warm, small, mammalian body - but more importantly the demon in him purrs at the scent of rosewater, and book glue, and fresh linen. It’s a simple thing to ignore instincts. It’s a lot harder thing to ignore longing.

“Angel?” Crowley hisses gently.

There’s movement at the corner of the desk. A quick shuffle of papers. And from the darkness appears a very singular white rat.

He can see his angel’s tiny heart hammering in his chest. The quivering of whiskers. The stiff shuffle of paws. The air sours with the sharp tang of fear. 

Aziraphale is afraid.

“Is everything alright?” Crowley is worried- but is also simultaneously so, so relieved. At least, at the very least, his angel has words and the cognition to use them. 

“I-I…” Aziraphale stutters. “You’re a snake.”

Crowley looks down at himself. Perhaps his Angel is a bit discombobulated from the Fall. Perhaps he doesn’t quite connect that he can change forms as well.

“Oh well, yes. Well spotted.” The demon says almost playfully. 

Aziraphale hesitates.

“And I am a rat.” He says.

Oh.

Oh.

Maybe that’s been the problem all along. 

Aziraphale can smell there’s a snake nearby. Just like he can smell Aziraphale. Every new demon has to wrestle with a new set on instincts forced on them by the Above. Part of the whole torture for eternity thing. It’s now abundantly clear Crowley is making everything worse just by being around.

“Oh, Angel.” He says desperately. “I would never hurt you. Not ever. Not on my life. Surely you must remember that, don’t you?”

Aziraphale flinches as if struck. “I’m having trouble remembering a lot of things it seems.”

“I can change back if you want me to.” Crowley offers.

“I think I’m even more afraid when you’re bigger.” Aziraphale says quickly. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley’s heart stutters to a standstill. But he loves, and loves. He is no stranger to rejection in this arena. 

“I can leave.” He says. “Just give me a moment-“

“No! No.” Aziraphale’s little hands make a halting motion. “I don’t want to be alone. Please. I’m- I’m so cold.” 

Before Crowley can stop him, his angel is right there - his soft whiskers whispering against his coiled length. The demon almost shivers at the contact.

“Are you sure?” He says, leaving him room to back out. 

Aziraphale hops right into the space that’s left when Crowley curls up on himself. It’s perfectly rat sized. It’s as if his snake body was built to cradle him like this. He slithers a bit to give him more room, but Aziraphale stiffens. 

“It’s fine.” He says after a moment, his voice shaking. “It’s a j-just a little bit of mind over matter. Just p-please don’t squeeze me.”

If Crowley could roll his eyes, he would. He isn’t squeezing, he’s just making a little space for Aziraphale to nestle in. His coils shift into a makeshift scaley house. He likes the softness of Aziraphale’s body, the fur, the fat and the extra heat. It’s peaceful and though it’s new, and wrong - there’s something still right about it. 

“Are you alright?” Crowley settles his head next to Aziraphale so that they are somewhat side by side.

“No. I suppose I’m not,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I’m really not.”

“I’m here, you know?” His tongue flicks out gently. “I don’t know how much good I am, but I’m here.”

“Even though I bit you.” 

“No biggie.”

“Even though you had to go back to Hell to s-save me.”

“Also no biggie.”

“Why?”

“Do you even have to ask, Angel?”

“I’m a demon.” Aziraphale snaps, almost harshly. It’s a tone Crowley hasn’t heard before. Bitter. “Not an Angel. Not anymore. I don’t even have a name. And I used to have a name. I just can’t remember. When I try to I just feel the Fall. And the Burning. Everything I used to know about Heaven is a blur… I just. Everything is wrong. But I’m not an Angel. I know that. And you know that.”

Crowley’s heart sinks. “I’m ssssorry.”

“Don’t be.” A tiny pink paw reaches towards his face and lingers. “You’re the only thing that makes sense. I don’t remember much about heaven. But I do most certainly remember you, my boy.”

The rat snuggles himself against his scales. His tiny head buts under his jaw. He’s no longer a shivering mess. And Crowley, oddly, feels mildly content.

“Aziraphale.” He says after a time. From his scaly lips it sounds like the most blasphemous prayer.

“What?” He sounds confused. 

“That’s your name, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale scoffs quietly. “I’m a demon. That’s an angel’s name. Not mine. Never for a disgusting thing like me.”

“Disgusting? Is that what this is about?” Crowley is down-right incredulous. “Are you listening to yourself mate?

“Are you looking with your eyes?” He sniffs in rebuttal. “I’m a small, mammalian, rodent.”

“And I’m a big fuck-off snake. I’m pretty sure people like the looks of you more than the looks of me. I’ve got fangs. And scales, and I’ve caused mankind to leave Eden, and I’m pretty sure I almost caused the apocalypse. So what does that say about me? Am I disgusting?”

“Never dear, I just-”

“You are beautiful.” Crowley hisses with determination. “I have never seen a more gorgeous creature. Your fur is so white and silky. Everything about you is so warm, so soft, that I wish I was smaller so I could curl up tighter beside you. And I understand if you don’t want me to call you Angel, but to me you’ll always be, alright?”

“B-but. That name. My name - it no longer fits does it? You have used to have another name.”

“No one cared to remember mine. No one kept is safe for me to remember. I am what Hell made me.” Crowley says with no small amount of regret. “If you still want that name, then it’s yours, Angel. It’s completely yours.”

“I would like that. To keep it, I mean.” His voice is so small and fragile, it’s hard for the snake that he is to keep his promise, and not to squeeze.

“Then you are still Aziraphale,” Crowley says with authority. “once the guardian of the Eastern gate of Eden. My best friend. And the very best thing that ever happened to me. You own this bookshop, and everything in it. Including whatever is worthwhile in my cold blooded heart. And no matter what you say, no matter what you are - you’re still, after all this time, my Angel.”

“Crowley, I-”

“I love you, Aziraphale.” He quickly adds, before he swallows those words again. “And I don’t expect you to feel the sssame. But I do love you. And I wasss so scared of losing you. That you would be gone before knowing how I felt.”

“I’ve always known how you’ve felt.” Aziraphale huffs softly, almost amused. His little body nuzzles against his side. “I could sense Love, remember darling?”

“Oh.” Crowley feels immensly stupid.

“If its any consolation I feel the same way. Why do you think I Fell? I was given the choice of remaining Above and discontinuing our association for all eternity or, uh. Going to Hell as it here. I chose you. And I would do it again.”

At this, Crowley is undone. He wants to say he’s not worth it - but that would cheapen all of his love’s suffering. Who was he to argue with what his angel valued, especially above all else? All he can do now is try to be worthy of the sacrifice. If his devotion was ever for a second in question, it certainly will never be ever again. He will make sure of it. 

Real snakes don’t cry, but he does. Azipahale brushes his tears away with his fur. His warmth is curled tightly against his snout.

“There, there, my boy.” He says, “Everything will be alright. I’ll be fine, you’ll see. We have each other, what more could we ask for?”

Rain is still pounding against the rooftop. And the world still hasn’t ended. They are both alive. Both whole. And have found each other, again and again and again. If this isn’t perfect, he’s not sure what is.

“Fair enough. Angel. Fair enough.” Crowley whispers, his tongue flicking a pink seashell ear affectionately.

And they snuggle together, the rat and the snake, comfortably till morning.

* * *

Crowley, as a rule, cant cook for shit. But breakfast, as it turns out, is the exception. 

There’s eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, cheeses, toast, danishes, three different kinds of jam, a heaping bowl of strawberries, and a mug filled to the brim with hot chocolate. Aziraphale almost flits to each dish like a hummingbird. He samples everything, and comes back for seconds, and thirds.

“I can build you a plate, Angel.” Crowley says, peering over his mug of black coffee. He’s back into his more human shape- but he’s pretty sure it’s too soon for Aziraphale to even give it a try. “Save you some effort.”

“But this is so novel!” The little rat says, periscoping over a massive baguette. His big wet eyes are wide with wonder and excitement.

“Suit yourself.” He snaps open a newspaper, but there’s a soft smile tracing its way across his lips. His eyes alight on an advertisement. “You know, there’s a production of Madame Butterfly in town. We can go together if you’d like. It could be a date?”

“I-uh,” Aziraphale nervously hops over a tureen,“I don’t think that’s possible. I’m not sure if I can find my human shape by then.”

“Nah,” Crowley says dismissively. “You can just come along in my front pocket. Won’t even be a thing.”

“But what about the shop?”

“We can close it.”

“But what about… longer term? Who’s going to take care of it while I’m, well, me?” Aziraphale appears quite suddenly next to Crowley’s mug, wringing his tiny paws.

“I’ll run the shop, of course. It shouldn’t be too hard, should it?”

The rat looks dubious at this.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley slides off his sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”

“What if I can’t change?” Aziraphale looks down at himself, shoulder hunching in shame, “What if I’m like this forever?”

Before his Angel can scurry away, Crowley lifts Aziraphale to his shoulder. His tiny furred body is gently tucked against his pulse. He doesn’t struggle, instead his body goes liquid soft. Crowley kisses the top of his fuzzy little head. 

“Then I’ll love you anyway, Angel. Forever and for always.” He murmurs. “Does that sound like an agreeable Arrangement?”

Aziraphale sighs in contentment. “I suppose it does, Crowley. I suppose it does.”

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ - No beta, all the problems. But I figured I would huck this into the Good Omens pile. If you guys like it I can add another chapter, if it drowns in the sea of publishes then so be it.


End file.
